


a stitch away from making it (a scar away from falling apart)

by jotunhell



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Scars, Soldiers, War, war photographer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 23:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunhell/pseuds/jotunhell
Summary: A love story between a war photographer and a soldier.





	a stitch away from making it (a scar away from falling apart)

Aldis aims his camera lens at a lot of things. Many times it points towards the helpless, the dying, the dead. Other times it’s at the ones holding the guns. Seldom does he manage to aim it at the hopeful and the smiles, only because it’s a rare sight. Each picture he takes; he gives a little of himself, loses it to his subject because he thinks it’s only fair. He doesn’t just get to take something intimate, something powerful, and not give back. Sometimes he wonders how much of himself he has lost.

Elliot’s good at keeping people at arm’s length. He chases them away with his scowl. His limp causes him to walk with a cane so kids think he’s just another grumpy man who grunts a lot. The neighbors don’t appreciate him screaming himself awake in the middle of the night so that helps too. Now and then he gets tired of keeping people away.

 

The soft glow of daybreak hits Aldis’s dark skin, a pained man finding solace in its warmth. He had lost count on the days he would wake up before the sun does. His nightmares never give him a break. Each day he wakes up a little more resigned.

 It’s different when he’s on the field; it’s easier to face a warzone. At least the danger’s there and he can see it, others can see it. This is something else. Aldis sighs and takes a quick look of the city, awake and moving without him, before stepping back inside his apartment, his morning coffee now cold.

 

They meet one October morning when the day is gloomy and it promises nothing special. Elliot wasn’t planning on attending the photoshoot at the medical center. There was nothing inviting about having a camera pinning you down on a spot and having some stranger take photos of you. He already felt trapped thinking about it. But his sister called, told him to be nice and wear the blue shirt she got him for Christmas. “It brings out your eyes, Elliot!”

“I don’t care.” He growled but his sister’s enthusiasm didn’t falter. “Oh hush. You need to look your best, especially with the fancy photoshoot. You might find someone, hmn, cute!”

“I’m 42, Sarah.”

“You’re 42, not 70! Now go dress nice!”

He hates blue but he saw his sister’s smile so he wore it anyway.

“Next please.” Elliot’s the only one left so he takes that as his cue. Each step forward gives him a better look of the photographer and the image of some young, flimsy person with fake glasses behind a camera melts away.

The soft smile throws him off.

“My name’s Aldis. Please make yourself comfortable.” The man’s voice is smooth and he briefly wonders what his name would sound like rolling off that tongue. Elliot keeps silent, the lines on his body rigid, eyes unsure where to rest. Suddenly keeping still on a chair is hard.

Aldis notices this and it almost pains him to see him like that. He gives Elliot another gentle smile and something unreadable shifts behind the other’s blue eyes. “You must be Elliot, right?”

It’s strange how his name doesn’t sound harsh when Aldis says it. Elliot can’t help but scoff however. Of course they’d tell the guy about him. Elliot Barnes, difficult guy, doesn’t talk, distant veteran with a haunting past. Aldis must’ve seen that slight crack in Elliot’s walls and two shutter sounds later, he has what he needs. The younger steps back from behind the camera. His smile is polite but impossible to read. “This is it. Thank you.”

Elliot blinks. “Really? Don’t you have to take a few more shots?” His voice is low and rough, the innocence stripped away. Aldis imagines hearing that voice strained and yelling over a battlefield. It’s dreadful and enthralling. “Not always.” He replies, still wearing that unreadable smile that demands for Elliot’s attention. “May I ask a question?”

Sensing no danger, Elliot nods.

“Has this war taken anything from you?”

The easiest answer would be his leg. Back then he was the swiftest soldier in his squad before things went downhill, but Elliot thinks that this man isn’t looking for something easy. Technically, he doesn’t have to answer him. He doesn’t owe him anything and yet those kind eyes make him want to divulge his many secrets. “There was this guy back then. He liked riding horses and playing his guitar. You know, good heart and had dreams. He had clean hands and a flag on his shoulder. I look in the mirror and I don’t see him anymore. It’s been four years and I’m still looking for him.”

Aldis stares at Elliot, taking in his features, the harshness that war left on him, and he thinks that, just for a single heartbeat, he sees the man the soldier was talking about. “Thank you for that.”

He watches the emotions that chase each other on the elder’s face; surprise, shame, fleeting anger, and then he’s back to a guarded scowl. Elliot’s jaw clenches and he leaves without another word.

 

 

Two days later and Elliot sees him again, this time in the PT room. He’s in the middle of stretching his leg with his therapist’s supervision when he feels a shadow lurking. The shadow has dark brown skin, seeking eyes, and an expensive camera in hand. He looks up just to see Aldis holding up said camera in permission. Elliot nods. “You’re back.”

“I hope you don’t mind.” Aldis smiles at the therapist in greeting and makes sure to stay out of Elliot’s way. Camera in hand, he begins to take shots, adjusting his settings each time. The first thing he notices is the angry scar that runs up Elliot’s leg like a jagged lightning bolt.  He can see where the stitches would have been. Next is the scar running down his arm, thin but no less angry.

By the time he’s finished staring, Elliot has abandoned his cane and has dragged himself to the parallel bars. His leg has gained back some of its mobility but the movements remain jerky and weak. Aldis is more interested with the frustration and apprehension behind Elliot’s eyes though. He takes his photo.

The therapist remains by the side, whispering reminders to take it easy in which Elliot would respond with a disgruntled “I got it.” He wonders what Elliot’s like on his bad days; when he’s not so reserved, when he loses his patience, when he’s just desperate to walk away.

Blue eyes burn right through the lenses as if Elliot was reading his thoughts. Aldis keeps his composure, despite those eyes piercing through his very being, and adjusts himself to get a good angle. “What’s this photoshoot of yours called?” Elliot grunts, gripping on the bars. “My concept is about a veteran’s war outside of war.”

“Does anybody even care about that?”

“I have faith that humanity does.” Elliot could only scoff at that. If only he’s seen humanity as much as the bloodshed.

“Why are you taking photos of me then? There are soldiers out there that suffer injuries way worse.” He feels guilty for even receiving this attention. He knows he’s right. He’s lucky he even has a leg despite its condition. Many have lost whole limbs, gained uncontrollable tremors, sensitive triggers. Others don’t have access to any help and medication or even a damn home for that matter. He’s just another somebody who got lucky.

Aldis frowns at that, lowering his camera. He has trouble meeting Elliot’s eyes. “That’s true but that doesn’t mean you struggle any less.”

“Maybe it does.”

The photographer smiles wryly. “It’s not a competition. If it is, none of us are winning.  You don’t have to invalidate your struggles because someone has it worse. We’re all just trying to get by.”

Elliot’s grip slackens a bit and he doesn’t speak for a while, just keeps at it with taking careful steps along the bars. Something tones down the turmoil in his eyes, softening the hard lines on his face. He stares straight into the camera and Aldis takes the shot immediately, a new personal favorite.

 

 

“They have really good Irish coffee here.”

Elliot’s heart sinks. He knows that voice anywhere, much to his chagrin. He’s not surprised to see a warm smile greeting him when he turns around.

Seeing Aldis outside of the medical center is weird. It’s like seeing a teacher outside of school kind of weird. The one time he decides to check out the fancy coffee house and he’s there. Perhaps the universe is out to get him. “Are you stalking me?”

“Hmn? Nuh uh. I come here all the time.” His smile doesn’t falter and Elliot’s a little distracted by it.

“Will that be all, sir?” The girl behind the counter doesn’t really tear him away from the smile but it works enough. “Uhh, yes, and uhm… an Irish coffee too.”

Aldis keeps his pleased look to himself, pursing his lips. “You hungry?”

He tries to fight back a blush. “I’m more concerned on what to do with two cups of coffee.”

“I know a place with good cheesecake that goes well with that. I think we can work something out.” Elliot realizes how young Aldis can be without the somberness around him. That sun he has for himself is good and he hopes that he gets to keep that.

“It’s not a…”

“Well, it’s just two acquaintances, both happen to be hungry, going to a restaurant together.”

“Right.”

It’s definitely a date, and once numbers were exchanged, they go on a couple more.

 

 

They’re sitting on the floor of Aldis’s apartment, slouched against the wall and cold beer in hand. Aldis manages to peel the label off his bottle, making a mess. Elliot stares at the photos strewn around them; some familiar, others a different side of war he hasn’t seen yet. They whisper to him the same way they whisper to their photographer; hauntingly, just sitting there, looming over, waiting for the help they’re never going to get. Aldis notices his lingering stare on a certain photo.

“I took that when I was in Syria.” His voice is distant, recalling a memory that he doesn’t like getting too vivid. “Her name’s Ada. She recognized her rapist so he cut off her eyes.” Aldis just keeps going. “Kid in Myanmar. He’s not crying or anything, just kinda confused. I don’t think he understood that his father was in that body bag.”

The silence is thick and it has its hands around their throats. They drown in it a little but Elliot is the first one to move, pulling Aldis back from his thoughts. He places his hand on top of the younger’s, noting the stark difference of their complexions and yet the calluses there make them the same. He was about to pull away when he feels Aldis squeezing his hand back. The younger lets out a breath and he can’t tell if it’s of relief or exhaustion. Right then they both agree that they have the same ghosts.

 

“What do real people do at times like this?” The stretch of quiet ends and Elliot focuses on Aldis, memorizing his features. The question hangs there for a moment.

Just when the silence starts to pound in his ears, Aldis feels lips against his own, longing and growing desperate. The scratch of stubble against his own is maddening and it pulls a sound from him; Elliot’s name in the form of a whisper, a prayer. His lungs burn but at the same time he has never breathed this easy before.

They worship their gods that night, Elliot finding his between Aldis’s legs and Aldis reaches his heaven, the only traces of it disappearing in crumpled sheets and the red marks on Elliot’s back.

 

               Sometimes they can both be so human; like sharing little joys and passions with each other.

               _Aldis steps into the kitchen while the older is cooking, the smells in the room making his mouth water. “Here, taste this.” Yes, not even a proper greeting. He likes it when Elliot is in the zone. Aldis tries the white sauce held out to him, the flavors dancing in his mouth. “Hmn!”_

_“Not too much ginger?” Aldis gives a thumbs up. “It’s good. Here let me help.” It’s ten seconds later when pots and pans clang against each other and Elliot doesn’t even look up, his knife pointing Aldis towards the living room. “Get out.”_

_That’s the fastest he’s ever been banished in his own kitchen. He makes a sulking noise, moving out of Elliot’s way. “Ungrateful.” Elliot rolls his eyes and grins._

_“Oh man, these black noodles are something else!”_

_“It’s tagliolini neri con gamberi.”_

_“That’s what I said, Elliot, it’s what I said.”_

Or find a reason to do things again.

_He stares because he lets him, even if he’s not sure Elliot likes it. His fingers move across the piano’s keyboard and the notes that fill the room chasing away whatever haunts the other. He hasn’t played piano in a long time, too much noise, but Elliot seems to hear music in his notes so he keeps playing. He writes him a song and Elliot blinks, blushes, then calls him a sap for it. Aldis smiles because he’s never seen Elliot’s eyes look so soft._

               Sometimes they break, like any other humans do.

               _“What was that all about?” Aldis’s brows are furrowed, shutting Elliot’s apartment door behind them. The night is hot for a November evening and it doesn’t help the older’s temper. “You didn’t have to shout and get aggressive back there!”_

_The mall was crowded and his leg was aching. He should’ve just stayed home instead of trying to impress this man by going to the movies. He hated crowded places. Too many people— bodies all around him. He can’t save all of them. Some lying there, lifeless, because of him—_

_“Elliot!”_

_“No, you don’t get a say, okay?! You don’t get it! You don’t understand what it’s like!”_

_Aldis clenches his jaw at that. “Do I have to remind you that we work in the same field?” The scoff that he hears from the man tears his heart. “You’re just a photographer!”_

_“How dare you say that to me?” Elliot nearly sobers up at the raised voice, his anger toning down. Seeing Aldis in this light is jarring, every line in his body tensed now. “I’ve seen things that you cannot imagine, witnessed people, children, get killed in front of me while I can’t do anything but take their damn photos! Do you have any idea what’s that like? What kind of images are stuck in my head all because people like you think it’s okay to solve things with your stupid ass guns! All you soldiers are brutes!”_

_“And you, a bystander, are you any better?”_

_“I never said I was. But at least I didn’t pull a trigger.”_

               But in the end, they crawl back to each other, as their hearts wanted, as their nature demanded.

 

Elliot’s screams are muffled by the loud thunder and his body jerks, harsh and with force as if he’s fighting off something only he sees, dragging him away from sleep. His leg begins to clench and his cries are nearly silent. The darkness around threatens him and for a split second, he thinks he’s back in the trenches. Roaring thunder doesn’t help, not when it sounds like the grenade he threw.

               Suddenly strong arms are around his trembling figure and it anchors him away from his nightmares. Aldis is quiet as he holds Elliot tight, burying his nose on the other’s hair while pale lips rest on his temple. Elliot’s grip is tight too. He holds him like a lifeline, nearly bruising that dark skin of his.

Long minutes pass and a tired sigh escapes him. Elliot begins to pull away and the arms loosen their clutch. The bed is lighter, colder, now that Aldis isn’t there but he needs to breathe. Each breath gives him back his bearings but it also detaches him from everything else, a welcoming numbness settling in. He lets all of it go because if he doesn’t he won’t make it through the night.

Soft light begins to fill the room and Elliot doesn’t need to turn around to know that Aldis is grabbing for his camera. The soft shuttering noises follow and he closes his eyes, throwing his head back so the younger can get a good shot of his face and the distraught etched there.

Being vulnerable isn’t something Elliot likes but if Aldis ever asks, he’d let him read the torn and frayed pages of his book.

He bares himself for him. Only for him.

 

 

“Why do you keep staring at that? Something wrong?” Elliot’s rough voice pulls him away from his thoughts and the perplexed look on Aldis’s face must be loud if it manages to distract the other from going through the recipe book he got for him.

He looks up and sees that Elliot still has his hair in a low ponytail the way Aldis left it, lounging comfortably on his couch. Something about seeing the man at ease in his place warms his heart. Like he’s supposed to be there, like the soldier belonged. Aldis could only pray.

Elliot grabs his cane, walking over to him.

“No, it’s just…” What is it exactly? The other photos are perfect, he’s satisfied with it, but with Elliot’s… something just escapes him. This doesn’t go unnoticed by the other.

“Is something wrong with mine? You don’t like it?”

And oh, the way his heart clenches when he hears Elliot’s voice go soft like that.

“No, no…” He meets the man’s gaze with kind eyes and Elliot seems to relax at that. “Yours is perfect, it’s just…” He gently taps at the photos, many of those blue eyes he adores so much staring right into him.

“I don’t know who you’re telling your story to.” It sounds pathetic in his ears but it’s been bugging him for hours like an itch that won’t go away. “The others, they’re telling their story to everyone. The government, the people, their families. You’re telling someone too—this is for someone— but I just can’t… tell.” He ends lamely and he’s sure that when he turns around, Elliot is going to snort in his face.

But he doesn’t and Aldis gets a look from him that he doesn’t quite read, like the obvious is right there and he’s missing it.

“You.”

“What?

“You. This is for you.”

He blinks, a veil lifting from his eyes. He stares at the photos again. “That can’t be right. I’m just the photographer.”

There must be something wrong with what he said because Elliot looks like he’s been slapped. Confusion, however, grows on Aldis’s face.

The stories aren’t usually for him. He tells them. He’s the deliverer, the middle man. That’s his truth and reality. Working as an intermediary between two sides of the world perhaps started to pull him apart, blurring him in between the helpless and the privileged. And he doesn’t even notice it, not until someone is there to make it obvious.

“I mean…” He trails off, disarmed by the soldier’s stare. It’s the same stare in the pictures.

There’s a gravity that comes with Elliot Barnes and Aldis is helpless when it comes to it. He pulls him into his orbit easily. So when Elliot leans up, his body bends down on instinct and he is rewarded with a soft kiss.

“Hey,” his voice is gruff and sweet, sending a shiver down his spine. “I’m looking at you. No one else. _I see you, Aldis_.”

It’s the eyes that get him. He doesn’t think the man knows how bright and honest they can be. Anybody else could say that to him but he’d only believe Elliot. His heart believes him too and right then it’s hammering in his chest, desperate to reach out. He holds his hand instead and Elliot squeezes it before dragging him away from his work table for the rest of the day.

              

 

The grey curtain over the photos is a little dramatic but Elliot feels like he shouldn’t judge, not when he has an open champagne bar at his arsenal. He’s downed three glasses already if he’s going to get through the event. Aldis had five.

“Relax.” Brown eyes flicker over at Elliot, a faint smile quirking up Aldis’s lips. “I’ll keep it in mind.” The gallery owner, also his employer, begins to make a short speech about the works and artists involved. Aldis has learned to tune it out until his name rings in his ears and he turns to Elliot for courage. Blue eyes, soft and proud, locks with his own and it reminds Aldis of a calm ocean. “You got this.”

 _I got this_ , he repeats in his head before walking over to the platform. “Good evening, everyone. Thank you for this crowd and for the support for your local Brooklyn artists and photojournalists. It’s a pleasure of mine to present these projects. Each project has its conflict, different stories to tell, and I hope that you’ll be able to listen to these images. They will adorn the halls of this new gallery or perhaps your home. Enjoy.” And with a single nod, his speech ends and the curtain drops.

Elliot doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he lets it go, watching these fancy people move around to examine the photographs. Among the buzz of alcohol and chatter, he feels the struggle of each photograph, the conflict present as Aldis said. It seeps in his bones, a dull fire.

He sees one of his pictures and doesn’t stare at it much, still unable to grasp the fact that he let someone in and photograph him in such a state. The one in the PT room, that night during the thunderstorm.

“Hey,” greets the unmistakable voice. Elliot grips tight on his cane and instinctively leans close to Aldis, finding comfort in his presence. He’s close enough for their shoulders to bump and if he closes his eyes and tries hard, he can feel his breath tickling the side of his neck.

“One of these is not like the others.” A soft chime breaks Elliot from his daydreaming and he finds a woman joining them. The way Aldis loses the tension in his shoulders tells him that they’re good friends.

“Rhys.” Aldis smiles. “This is Elliot. Elliot, this is my best friend, Rhys.”

“He’s even prettier in person.” Their hands shake and Rhys’s smile puts him at ease. Elliot likes her already. “Look.” Both men follow her gaze and right there in front of the photo of the thunderstorm, a tiny crowd starts to form.

Elliot is perplexed. Aldis is just pleased.

“Quite an intimate shot, Mr. Coleman.” says Rhys, a teasing lilt in her tone.

He remembers the screams, the tremors in Elliot’s body, the crack of thunder that made him wince. He also remembers the way he fell back asleep, the even breaths, the soft lull of his heartbeat and the way Elliot’s arm held him for the rest of the night. “It was an intimate moment.” Aldis replies.

“One might say that you’ve found something lovely in the war zone.”

He looks at Elliot, who’s too busy checking out the other photographs, and he thinks of the many times his heart skipped a beat for him or the contentment he feels when he gets to hold him in his arms. Something lovely would be an understatement.

“Something I’ve learned, Ms. Atwell, is that people are war zones but we are not ruins.”


End file.
